I  have a pink post-it on my cheap Michael’s cork bulletin board. A post-it with “Goal Getter” plastered on the top, I find it funny. There are no “goals” written on it, no reminder, just my one-time passwords for my numerous accounts in case I lose my phone which has the authenticator app for those accounts. I have another pink “Goal Getter” post-it, it listed the roles and rules that different chess pieces have. I wrote that down during a time where I wanted to play “5D Chess with Multiverse Time Travel” and be good at it. But like my password “Goal Getter” post-it, it wasn’t a goal that I’ve reached, but a forgotten dream. On the right side of the bulletin board I have a couple of bird feathers that belonged to two separate birds pinned to the board. Those who left me too soon, those that I was not prepared to lose. But here I sit, facing my $2000 white Alienware m15 R3 laptop, waiting for an eureka moment to write my next piece. Yet, as I sit here waiting all I can think about is how hallow I’m feeling, like a void wearing a fleshy suit.

I sit in my living room, with no space of my own to call my own. A 6-foot real Christmas tree standing all nice and chunky behind me, a time of joy and happiness. I have two 96-inch bird rope like perches hanging across my roof for my birds, one of them is groom themselves on that perch but I’m not sure who it is since I have not turned around to see who it is. It’s cold also, in this apartment. My mom doesn’t let me turn on the heat since they “apparently” turn on themselves. So here I am sitting in front of my computer with my bulletin board behind it, living like a void in a fleshy suit.

But this type of existence is reoccurring, a routine I developed for my everyday. I wake up, feed my animal babies, and living out the rest of the day living like a cold void in a fleshy suit. Facing the consequences of these actions, even so, I can’t bare to move from the bounds my couch holds. But as I turn my head towards my bulletin board, I see my “Goal Getter” post-its and I laugh.

“I was once a child reaching for the stars, but now I’m but a cold void living in a fleshy suit”.

Being around me was like charity to them. A trial run one may say, to see if I would make any moves on them. If you were on the other side of their borderline-idiotic ways of thinking, then you had to be an ally right? Wrong. After coming out as queer, everything changed. I was no longer the kid who could spell any word given to him. The one with a baking obsession. The one who always knew how to lighten the mood. I was predatorial, a danger to the other boys. If I wanted to have made a move wouldn’t I have done it earlier, under the umbrella-like protection heterosexuality provided?

Where was everyone all the other 364 days of the year? Suddenly, I was the center of attention. I was so brave, no one else could’ve done it or lived in my shoes for a day? I’m not a hero. This wasn’t my coming-of-the-age story cliche. This wasn’t your chance to prove that you’re not a horrible person because you no longer let “that word”, escape your mouth. You all are the same. Nothing more and nothing less. The day I came out is now so distant, but plays on a constant loop, like a broken record player. So many beautiful things have happened since then, but at what cost? Sometimes I wonder if the plethora of Instagram followers was worth it. The PR packages. The friends. All superficial, sometimes even meaningless. It’s all for show. His name speaks for itself.

When I was nine my mother would take my sister and I to church every Sunday. I always dreaded having to wake up early to make it to early mass but my mother loved going to mass at 9am. My sister and I would fuss and make pretend we couldn’t wake up to avoid going. Eventually we started going to mass at 11am, and we would go for lunch as a family afterwards. That I enjoyed a lot, and it became less difficult to get us both out of bed to get to mass. We made friends with another family and we often all sat together. I did my best not to talk to anyone while the pastor was talking so that others could listen. But as we got older we chatted a bit more. One day, my friend David had said something really idiotic during mass and I couldn’t help but giggle. Someone behind me tapped my shoulder, so I turned around slowly. I hadn’t paid any attention to who had sat behind me so I was surprised when I turned and saw someone I didn’t know. The person that sat behind me was a man, skinny with gray hair and a lot of wrinkles on his face. The wrinkles on his forehead turned into a U and he had his eyebrows furrowed. He looked annoyed, and angry that he was sitting behind a group of teenagers. He said to me and only me in a hushed angered voice “You are the oldest out of all of them! Why are you talking during mass, that is rude and disrespectful and the devils work!” I couldn’t say anything back, I was blown away by him referring to the devil while we were in the house of God. I felt that should be illegal and that he was wrong for saying that. I wanted to cry because he had basically called me out for being the devil, and I was not the oldest one. I was the tallest one but David was the oldest one, in fact he was the one that had said the joke to make me laugh. I was so angry for getting in trouble and felt that I had been blamed when it wasn’t even my fault! He should’ve disciplined David.

After mass was over, I ran down the stairs outside of the church to where my mom was so I could tell her what the old man had said to me. As I spoke my mom’s faced looked humored, I wasn’t sure what was so funny about my story. She bent down and her toasty warm hands held my face. In the sweetest voice she said “Jennyfer, he might’ve been wrong for saying you’re the devils work, but sweetie, you shouldn’t have been chatting in the first place. I hope that this sticks with you and you stop talking while mass is going on”. I could feel my cheeks getting hot, I was flabbergasted by her choice in words. I half expected her to take my side, but here she was saying I was at fault. I swore at thirteen that I would never go back to church, not because I got lectured but because I felt humiliated that my own mother wouldn’t take my side

Growing up, my parents weren’t around a lot, they were always working. My mom worked in Connecticut and my dad deep in Brooklyn. Both would leave before my brother and I woke up. At the time, our grandparents lived in the same building as us. My dad would drop us off at their apartment when he left or work. My grandpa was the super of the building and had to work early too, but was always in and out of the apartment. Every morning he would make us hash browns, eggs and strawberry milk, he’d always remind us to not tell our mom. Of course, the first thing I’d do when I see my mom next is tell her that I had strawberry milk. We took the bus to and from school too. My grandma gave us walkie talkies to contact her whenever we were sick or needed something when she was in the other room. The bus stop was down the block so whenever we were approaching we’d get out our walkie talkies and tell her to meet us downstairs. We would often fall asleep before our parents got home, but we liked spending time with our grandparents a lot. And, of course, we liked the strawberry milk too.

I loved Fridays as a kid, just as most did. The shared feeling of excitement as the weekend approaches and we’d get to sleep in and not worry about homework or assignments, seemed like a dream. One Friday changed everything, though. I recall being excited as we had presentations, I had worked so hard with the help of my dad, as tired as he was. It started off normally, I went into school with my huge poster board attached to the back of my huge bag as a 5th grader and went to my classroom. It was about halfway through the day when the call happened.

“Marisa, you’re going home” my teacher had said. A bit confused, but almost excited as I assumed there was something exciting at home, but boy was I wrong.

My cousin picked me up, we lived just three blocks from the school, so walking distance. The walk was calm, we made small talk and even joked, but I still hadn’t found out why I was going home so early.

Entering my darkened house, I see my dad distantly washing his face near the bathroom mirror. He walked toward me and asked me to sit on the couch. As he got closer, my nervousness increased as I saw the red, teary eyes.

“Mom” and “Heaven” were the only words I could make out.

The cold memory stuck with me as I was reminded of it every time the classroom phone rang, signaling a kid was being picked up. Surely it is usually the most innocent reasons; a doctor’s appointment or even just to spend the day with a parent, but for the life of me I can’t get that association out of my head, I can’t see someone leave class early without automatically assuming there is a family emergency. A death. It always takes a minute or so to calm my beating heart.

Every step I took, every move I made, I felt like my lungs could’ve collapsed at any moment. I paced around the kitchen area, forgetting even how many circles I did around the kitchen island.

The boom of every footstep was loud enough to quite possibly break the hard lock I had on my anxiety. My breathing quickened, tears threatened to fall at any moment, and my chest began to cave in.

“If I stay here, they’ll all hear me.”

The monotonous circling around the kitchen island wasn’t going to cut it anymore. The mundane distractions I had sought after to try and forget about the boulder of fear hanging over my head had long stopped working. With a hand over my mouth and tears staining my cheeks, I took the urgency to climb the stairs faster than I ever had before.

I slammed the door shut behind me and cried.

A cry so powerful the next day my eyes were swollen and, I couldn’t breathe out of my nose.

A cry so forceful that I had to hum to myself in bed to try and calm down.

A cry so god damn awful that my brother heard from the room over.

I tried my best not to sob or whimper, but the pain was too much. The anguish of self-hate was overbearing. It had a tight grip on my heart. The purgatory that is to not loving yourself, not believing in yourself, and regretting your existence. It was a true hell to be stuck inside a mind with all those thoughts and to never have the courage to seek solace in a single person.

The worst part was not the crying. It was the silence.

I felt like if I spoke about it, there would be weight to my words and, all my worst fears would come true. All the terrifying truths I fought to push down would escape through my mouth freely.

I laid my head on my pillow and kept crying, hoping the tears would run dry eventually.

“Am I crazy?”

I was sitting on my bed, balled up with my knees to my chest, and humming to myself. Although it was calming, it isn’t the actions of someone doing too well.

Between sharp intakes of air and my throat threatening to close, I just couldn’t help but laugh.

Just like I always did, I needed to calm down and breathe, or at least something close to the semblance of a breath.

I removed my body from a protective position and just fell limp back into my mattress.

I started at the ceiling and just started to breathe.

Everything will be just fine if you take a second and breathe.

We are the broken and longing.

The beaten and deserted.

We are the stray you left behind. 

Wanting more, needing more. Damaged. Hurt.

We are the two Spanish to be black into white to be Spanish.

We are the “please and thank you”. 

We are the apologizing for something that isn’t your fault.

We are the “take your elbows off the table at dinner time”.

We are the “say ten Hail Mary’s and our father’s” every night.

I am the christian from a catholic family or the catholic from a christian family.

We are the kitchen is always hot, but the heart is too cold.

The whatever in forever in the loyal and disloyalty. I am the beaten and tired. I am the working hard, never hardly working. I am the “Never Depend On Nobody.” I am the “figure it out.” I am the everlasting. 

As a child, I was taught boundaries and principles. Always stand up for yourself, but never speak unless spoken to; mind your business and keep your mouth shut when it comes to other’s problems. If I was lost, I was taught to figure it out and not depend on anyone. I am the unwanted, but loved. I am a christian, that is what I was told. But, I am the one who does not believe in all of the bible. I am the one with torment from not having a communion, with pain from not knowing of Ash wednesday. I am the stray that was estranged from society. I was the not allowed outside with the children from my neighborhood or the going to school far from home. I am not normal.

One night, I had a nightmare I can never forget. 

It was the middle of the night when I awoke to a wretched stench oozing out of my closet. The most vile smell was undecipherable, like an unknown substance even the top scientists couldn’t identify. All I knew was, something was dead. Ah, I remember: that stupid raccoon that made its way through our roof vents. He must’ve gotten stuck!

I opened my eyes, flinching from the bright yellow light spilling through the crack of my bedroom door. It was late. I looked towards the menacing closet door in apprehension. All of sudden it burst open, thunder striking through the ceiling, and all I saw was my father’s dark silhouette, a body bag in his bloody arms. I stared in horror, and for a second the lightning brightened his face, although I couldn’t make out his dark expression. He swung a pistol from his right hand, and I heard my mother’s screams die out in seconds as he shot the bullet, the next bullet splitting through my older brother, the last penetrating my sister’s skull. My whole world crashed down and I could no longer feel my own throat from the way I was screaming. 

I woke up with tears streaming down my face, and my heart beating out of my chest. I stayed there, lying down on my bed, my throat somehow parched, for almost ten minutes. 

I remember calling for them. it was 12:00 am and was really cold. I haven’t seen them all day, and my anxiety grows as seconds pass by. As soon as I was about to give up and go back home, I hear a faint scraggly “meow”. I turned around. and there he was.  One brown cat running out the bushes coming to greet me. Seconds later, another cat come out, an orange one, following the brown one. I smile and say “Hey bravery and Chaz”. I realized how weird it was talking to two cats, but I didn’t care. They went from running away from me just by the mere sight, to frantically chasing me by the sound of my voice. It was odd, but they were so important to me, even though they were two strays. They had their own little quirks and personality, especially when they know you have food. They were days where I felt so alone, and only they could truly cheer me up. Today was a really long day at work, and I felt like I didn’t really do a good job. Its weird, but that made me feel a bit insecure. Then when i see them, I feel like someone who is truly appreciated and loved.  I met so many wonderful people due to how loved they are in the neighborhood. They may just be two strays, but they have such a huge impact on my life. As well as sparking my interest to be a wildlife vet.

In psychology, they say that no human being can truly remember anything before the age of 4. If think you have a memory before that, then they say that memory is just a reflection of stories other people have told you about your childhood; they are not coming from your own memory but instead, from other people recounting their own memories of you. If that’s true then the following events will shock you.

Since she was a little girl, Emelia could vaguely remember a very specific memory. Whenever she thought back to it, she couldn’t remember it completely, but she could visualize it in flashes. In one flash, her mother was dressing her in a pink dress with white shoes. In the next flash, she was in a van with some of her family members and she had a toy baby doll on her lap. In the next flash, she was in a shopping mall with her family, pushing a toy stroller with her baby doll in it. The last flash she remembers is one where she stops in front of a store, and gets her picture taken. As the years went by and Emelia grew into an adult, she began to think that memory was probably a dream. Her mother didn’t remember it, and she couldn’t ask the family members she remembered being around because they permanently moved out of the country. She decided that it was just something she imagined.

A few years later, Emelia and her mother went to visit their grandmothers home in Jamaica after 15 years of being away. The  house is full of memories and images. Emelia and her mother decided to go through old photo albums that were stored in the house. Their eyes filled up with tears as they say their great grandparents wedding photos, pregnancy pictures, and baby pictures of everyone in the family. At the end of the last photo album, there was a picture of a brown little girl in a shopping mall. She was wearing a pink dress and white shoes and was pushing around a stroller with a small plastic baby sitting in it. On the bottom right corner of the image was a date: 05/26/2002. The little girl would’ve been two years old when that photo was taken. That little girl was Emelia, and Emelia is me. Maybe psychologists don’t know everything.